Vanishing Act (17 page)

“No. Why?”

“Long story. I'll tell you when I get back out there. I'm walking to the subway right now. Did you guys find anything out?”

“That movie guy was still hanging around the Open Club, but no sign of Norwood or the Symanovs. They're putting Nadia on Leno tonight on a satellite feed. Every network—even the majors—broke into their programming to cover her press conference live. Tom Ross told Bobby that Reebok has offered her fifteen million a year when her Nike deal is up and there may be a bidding war.”

He was nodding his head as he listened. “Okay. I'll be back in an hour.”

“If you want to see the match, you better hurry. The press section will be jammed.”

“On my way. I'm walking into the subway right now.”

Not surprisingly, Grand Central Station was jammed too and it took him a while to make his way down to the platform for the number 7 train. A train was just pulling in when he walked onto the platform, and Stevie had to wedge his way in since the car was packed. After some mild pushing and shoving, he found a place right in front of a seat, close to the door.

They rode in silence, except for the roar of the train, under the East River, to the Jackson Avenue stop in Queens. Stevie could tell some of the people on board were businesspeople on their way home. Others—more casually dressed—were no doubt heading out for the night matches in Flushing. His legs were starting to cramp a little by the time they pulled into the stop marked 61st Street—Woodside. As the doors opened, he relaxed his grip on the pole he'd been holding. Just as he did, he felt someone shove him from behind.

“Hey!” he said, surprised.

Before he could say anything else, he was given another shove—this one much harder—which propelled him through the open door and onto the platform. “What the…?”

The shover, who had followed him outside, was a guy in a suit who had been standing next to him. Someone else, also in a suit, had appeared, standing in front of him.

“Don't say a word,” the second man said. He flashed a badge at Stevie. “Police. Come with us, keep quiet, and you won't get hurt.”

“But what did I do?” he said. His mind was churning. His gut told him something wasn't right—this wasn't how cops acted on TV.

“One more word and we cuff you,” said the guy who had shoved him from the train. They were half pushing him, half pulling him toward a flight of stairs. He wondered if he should shout for help. But the badges would probably convince a bystander to leave well enough alone. For the moment, he decided, he would cooperate. He'd get off the subway platform and maybe make a run for it when the chance came. He was guessing he could run faster than the two men. He told himself to take deep breaths and try to stay calm as they shoved him down the steps.

They walked him through the exit of the station and onto the street, then quickly hustled him into an alley. Stevie's heart began pounding. They walked several yards down the alley, one of them keeping a very firm grip on Stevie's upper arm, the other pushing him from behind so hard that he stumbled several times. He was trapped. He couldn't wrestle free, and now there was no one to shout to for help. The one in back spun his shoulder so that he was standing with his back to a wall and facing the two of them. They weren't all that old, maybe in their thirties. The one who had pushed him out the door, who was about six feet tall with short, dark hair, did the talking.

“You had better listen very carefully right now,” he said.

“This is the last chance you're going to get.”

Stevie had expected a New York accent. It wasn't—in fact, it was very Midwestern. He said “cheance” instead of “chance.”

“Chance to do what?” he said. “Get beaten up?”

“Keep talking and you will,” the Midwestern guy snarled. “This time you get a warning. Leave the Symanova story alone—got it? It's none of your business. Just watch the tennis and have a good time. Tell your girlfriend the same thing.”

“Or what?” Stevie said.

That was a mistake. The second guy suddenly punched him very hard in the stomach, so hard he doubled over and fell to the ground. He had his wits about him just enough to partially break his fall with his hand, but he still bumped his head on the concrete.

“Any more questions?” the guy asked. “Nadia Symanova isn't your concern. Don't test us. If you do, you'll be sorry.”

Stevie didn't move or say anything else. He heard them leaving, their footsteps echoing against the concrete in the alley. He waited for the stars he was seeing to clear. Finally, he tried to stand up—slowly—and fell down. The guy had really hit him hard. As he was waiting for the dizziness to pass, he noticed a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. He wondered if someone would find him lying here. Not likely. He finally worked himself into a sitting position and, slowly, his breath started to come back and his heart stopped racing. He sat with his back to the wall and tried to think.

What had just happened? The easy part was that he had been threatened. Someone didn't want him—or Susan Carol—asking questions about Symanova. But why? He didn't know anything and neither did she. He wondered if Brendan Gibson had something to do with this. But that would have been awfully quick, getting someone to follow him from the hotel to the subway after their confrontation. Someone had planned this before he went into the hotel with Evelyn. Had someone been following him all day?

After a few minutes, he tried to stand up again. He managed to get to his feet, but the effort made his head spin. His head hurt almost as much as his stomach. He wiped the blood away from his mouth and slowly—shakily—started out of the alley. For a moment, he wondered if the two men would be waiting for him on the street to go another round. No. He walked slowly back to the subway station, paid the fare again, and walked painfully back up the steps. Another very full train was pulling in. He wondered if he would get sick with the movement of the train, but all he could think about was getting back to Flushing. At least inside the tennis center, he would feel safe.

He caught one break. The train was an express and it flew through most of the stations, stopping only once before it reached the Shea Stadium/Willets Point stop. Stevie noticed he was getting some funny looks as they rode. Someone actually gave him a seat and one woman asked him if he was feeling all right. “I'll be fine,” he managed to half gasp in response.

He walked very slowly across the boardwalk, still feeling sick, his head really pounding. He looked at his watch and saw it was a quarter to seven. He walked into the press center and Susan Carol, Kelleher, Mearns, Bud Collins, and Mary Carillo were all standing in a circle just inside the entrance.

“My God, Stevie,” Susan Carol said. “What happened to you?”

He looked down at himself and noticed then that some of the blood from his mouth had trickled onto his shirt.

He actually managed a smile—or so he thought. “Turns out tennis is a contact sport,” he said.

That was when the room started to spin. He felt his knees buckle and he saw people rushing to catch him. Then everything went black.

17:
DOWNTIME

THE NEXT
thing Stevie saw was the ceiling of the pressroom. His vision began to clear and he heard someone saying, “Don't try to sit up yet, just take it easy. A doctor is coming.”

The voice belonged to Bud Collins, who was kneeling beside him. He could now see that Susan Carol was on the other side of him, and Kelleher, Mearns, and Carillo were hovering. He could hear other voices just behind them.

“Here's Dr. McDevitt now,” Kelleher was saying.

A middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and short-cropped brown hair moved into the circle and kneeled down next to him. “How long was he out?” he asked the group.

“No more than a minute or two,” Collins said. “Maybe ninety seconds.”

Dr. McDevitt looked down at Stevie and smiled. “What happened to you, young man?”

“I got punched,” Stevie said. “In the stomach. Very hard. And then I whacked my head falling down.”

“Who punched you?” Kelleher asked.

“I don't know exactly. It was on the subway—near the subway, actually—back at Woodside.”

He saw Dr. McDevitt's eyes widen. “So you got back on the subway and made it here from Woodside after you took this punch?”

Stevie nodded.

“Well, that would explain why you passed out.”

The next few minutes were blurry to Stevie. With Susan Carol, Collins, and Kelleher helping, the doctor sat him up, then slowly helped him stand. They walked him down the hall into a room that had an examining table of some kind. The doctor had Stevie lie down. “He just needs to rest here for a while,” he said. “His insides are messed up right now. And he might have a mild concussion. He needs to lie still. I might give him something gentle to let him sleep for a bit.”

That sounded good to Stevie.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?” Susan Carol asked.

“Right now, I'd say no,” the doctor said. “Let's give him an hour or two and see how he's doing. Why don't you all clear out for a bit and let him rest.”

“I want to stay here,” Susan Carol said.

“You can stay,” Dr. McDevitt said. “But if I have my way, he's going to be asleep in about ten minutes.”

“That's okay. I'll stay anyway.”

Kelleher, Collins, Mearns, and Carillo all came over and gave Stevie little pats on the shoulder. “We'll see you after the match, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “Then we'll try to figure out what the hell happened to you. For right now, get some rest.”

Stevie nodded. He wanted to tell them everything but he still felt dizzy and a little bit sick. The doctor brought him a small pill and a cup of water. “This should help,” he said. Stevie drank, put his head back, and looked at Susan Carol, who had pulled up the chair next to him and, he now noticed, was holding his hand.

He was about to say something to her but felt too tired to talk. He closed his eyes instead.

When he woke up, the room was full again. “I thought you guys were going to watch the match,” he said.

Laughter. “Guess that little pill worked, Eddie,” Kelleher said. “Stevie, the match is over.”

“Who won?”

“Symanova. Closer than you might have thought, though—6–4, 6–4. She looked rusty. Even a little bit slow. Poor Walsh, she's an American playing a Russian in New York and twenty-three thousand people were rooting against her.”

He heard Dr. McDevitt's voice. “How are you feeling, Stevie?”

He took stock and realized that the pulsing pain in his stomach and head was just about gone. “Better,” he said. “Hungry.”

“That's a very good sign,” the doctor said. He turned to the others. “I think you can take him home. He should take it very easy at least for tomorrow. Has anyone called his parents?”

Before anyone could answer, Stevie tried to sit up. He felt a bit dizzy and lay back, but said, “No,
no.
You can't call them. They'll freak and they'll make me come home.
Please.
The doctor says I'm going to be fine. Please don't call.”

“Calm down, Stevie,” Dr. McDevitt said. “Tell you what. Let's see how you feel in the morning. Is that fair?”

Stevie nodded.

A few minutes later, helped up by the doctor, he walked gingerly down the hall and got into Kelleher's car, which Bobby had been allowed to pull close to the back entrance. Most of the crowd appeared to have gone home as soon as Symanova's match had ended. “Let's see how you do in the car,” Kelleher said. “I've got Eddie's cell if you start to feel sick. You might still have to go to the hospital.”

“Not going to happen,” Stevie said. He knew if he went to the hospital they would
have
to call his parents.

Susan Carol and Mearns were in the backseat. Kelleher gave Stevie an empty bag…just in case.

The trip to the city was rocky, but Stevie, sweating profusely, didn't get sick.

Kelleher dropped Stevie and Mearns off in front of the apartment building. “I'll park the car,” he said. “Stevie, do you want me to get you something to eat? You up to it?”

“How about John's Pizza?” he said.

“How about some chicken soup?” Mearns said.

“I'll get both,” Kelleher said.

Stevie turned to say good night to Susan Carol but she had gotten out of the car on the other side.

“What're you doing?” he asked.

“I'm coming in with you,” she said. “I want to be sure you're okay.”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I'll see you in the morning.”

She shook her head. “No, you won't. I'm sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“But I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are. Don't argue with me.”

He didn't argue. The three of them walked slowly into the lobby and took the elevator upstairs. They let him stretch out on the couch while Mearns went to get him something to drink. Susan Carol sat down in a chair next to the couch. “I guess I should tell you what happened,” he said.

“It can wait,” she said. “Let your head clear first.”

It occurred to Stevie that he had passed out in front of dozens of media people. “What did you all tell everyone in the pressroom?” he asked.

“That you ate something bad and had a mild case of food poisoning. That's what Bud told everyone, anyway. It seemed to work. They were all a lot more concerned with watching Symanova.”

“I'm sorry you missed the match.”

“I'm not. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyway.”

She gave him a concerned version of the smile.

Kelleher arrived a few minutes later. As soon as Stevie got a whiff of the pizza, he knew he wasn't eating chicken soup.

“Are you sure you're up to it?” Mearns said. “The soup might be a better choice right now.”

“I'm betting he eats the pizza,” Susan Carol said.

For the first time since he had stumbled onto the platform at Woodside, Stevie smiled. “You know me all too well,” he said.

He managed just two slices and some water, which told him he wasn't back to a hundred percent yet. He gave them the bare bones of the story and what he'd learned from Evelyn, but soon felt exhausted. Mearns and Susan Carol mothered him into the bedroom but left him alone to change, which he did—slowly. He was probably asleep an instant after he turned the light out. He didn't set an alarm but woke up at 6:40. When he got out of bed, he felt stiff and there was still a dull pain in his stomach, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. Still in pajamas, he walked into the kitchen, figuring no one would be up yet.

Susan Carol was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.

“That's starting to become a habit, isn't it?” he said. “Your father won't be happy.”

“I know,” she said. “But it's been a long week.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “You think I can have a cup?”

“Sure.”

He sat down while she poured some coffee and mixed in milk and sugar.

“I haven't been able to stop thinking all night,” she said. “If my uncle Brendan is really involved with these people, he's completely lost his way.”

“We don't know for sure that he was involved in sending those two guys after me,” Stevie said, wanting to make her feel better.

She, of course, saw right through him. “Stop it, Stevie. I need to face facts now.”

Kelleher came into the kitchen, yawning away sleep.

“Aren't you kids a little young for coffee?” he said. Then, without waiting for an answer, he poured a cup for himself and sat down next to Stevie. “How are you doing?”

“Better,” said Stevie.

“I'm going to fix him some breakfast and then he's going back to bed,” said Susan Carol.

“You're now my mother?”

“Speaking of which, you need to call them today,” Susan Carol said.

“Why?”

“Because they'll have noticed you haven't written anything the last couple days—you know your dad has been going to the
Herald
Web site to read you—and they'll want to know why.”

As usual, she was right. The question was, what should he tell them? The truth would have them both in New York within two hours to escort him home. He didn't want that. “Maybe I'll just tell them I ate something and felt sick to my stomach and Bobby gave me a day or two off.”

She smiled. “That's good, because it isn't even a lie. You've eaten plenty and you
were
sick to your stomach last night.”

“No kidding.”

Kelleher was shaking his head. “I'm not hearing any of this. I am blissfully unaware of any parental deceptions….”

They both laughed and Susan Carol started taking things out of the refrigerator. “I'm making eggs,” she said. “You like them over easy, right?”

“How do you know that?” Stevie said.

“We ate breakfast in New Orleans. I remember.”

They had eaten breakfast together a couple of times—with their fathers—in New Orleans. But if someone offered him a million dollars to remember what Susan Carol had eaten, he wouldn't have a clue. He wondered if that made her a better reporter than he was too.

Mearns joined them and Susan Carol ended up making eggs for everyone. Kelleher offered her advice, as they were his specialty, and Mearns made toast and poured juice all around.

Susan Carol refused to let Stevie have more coffee. “You need to rest,” she said. “One more cup and you won't be able to sleep. Drink your juice.”

“At what age exactly do girls start to think they're everyone's mother?” he asked.

“Twelve,” she answered. “Drink.”

They rehashed what they knew as they ate, with Stevie filling in a few more details as he remembered them. Mearns was shaking her head in disgust. “Beating up kids,” she said. “These are
really
sick people.”

“And one of them might be my uncle,” Susan Carol said.